Chapter Two - In Continuance Of

The wind swept through the silent streets, easing the stillness of the air. A storm gathered over the quiet, the stars hidden behind the accumulating clouds. Through the edges of them, near the horizon, the full moon reflected light, lending credence to the ever old adage of silver linings. Before long, though, the moon too was held captive and the grey sky solidified to a ceiling.

The June heat was stifling, the breeze having ceased in preparation to assist the impending rain in lashing anything left to its mercy. The humidity weighted down the plants of the city, adding a deadened air to the seeming ghost town quality present. Nothing moved, as though movement itself had been forgotten. The night was hard and holding fast, a difficult thing to face for mere mortals, and thus it was left to its privacy.

The streetlights flickered, seemingly to assure the world that it was real and not just a memory preserved in a disregarded photograph. The lamps fought their continual battle with the darkness, never fully able to dispel the gloom from clinging to the items it claimed. The shadows moved across inanimate objects as spectral dancers, an entertaining medium meant for none.

Playing a part of the stage for these incorporeal agents, a lone paper seemed to flutter in the nonexistent draft. A large headline shown out to the empty roads, nothing exciting enough for it to have been remembered by those it had belonged to before the night had banished the living from the outside world.

'Eighth Anniversary of the Defeat of The-Dark-Lord-Who-Was-Vanquished and Disappearance of He-Who-Vanquished-The-Dark-Lord!'

Suddenly the air crackled as a crack resounded through the still night. Two swarthy figures materialized just out of reach of the light of the lamps, glancing around their surroundings. Scanning the street, the shorter of the cloaked men read the discarded paper's bold headline.

"Honestly," the man's voice came out rough and soft, as though to preserve the sanctity of the quiet, "can they never use names? They create new titles at an alarming rate."

His companion merely gestured for the other to move before him, the light playing through the shadows to reveal his smirking expression. Tossing his head, the latter moved across the silent street, his comrade following closely behind. They ducked into a shaded alley, turning back to the street. Allowing the shadows to claim their forms, they easily blended into the dark. As though they had never disrupted the quiet, the night returned to its most esoteric existence.

Abruptly the sky lit with a blaze of lightening, streaking a white contrast to the obscured sky. Almost as though nature had announced a warning to the breaking of the silence, the air intensified and snapped with the arrival of more hooded figures. These cloaked forms bothered not to observe the empty streets, but moved deftly towards the darkened buildings, entering the un-welcoming dwelling with a muttered spell. As the intruders disappeared through the door with a squeak of hinges, the concealed men in the alley stepped from their hiding place. They followed the progress of the others into the domicile, closing the door behind them to the night.

As the sky then preceded to fall in pounding torrents, the windows of the intruded upon building lit with an unearthly glow. The green flares beat the influence of the yellow lamps, reflecting on the raindrops and cast a sickly tinge through the street. Screams echoed throughout the night, wrenching the silence apart, fighting the rolling of thunder for dominance. As the evidence of foul play faded from the witness of the empty street, the rain continued to batter the concrete, wind lashing so that if more cries were to ring out that night, none were heard. The two distant cracks from the direction of the disturbed residence registered little.

As suddenly as the storm had unleashed its fury, it once more stilled itself. The night was once more silent, the streets empty. Nothing moved in the dim light and darkened shadows. Even the wind had creased its desperate action. The only evidence of the violence that had occurred upon the street was the draining of water along the gutter. Ink becoming unreadable, a lone newspaper drifted with the current.

Isolated incidents of terror were forgotten as easily as summer storms, till it registered as merely a vague memory in the lives of the masses. No, the interest of the fickle public was centered more on those that had participated, not the why's or how's. Who cared of dates and locations when such amazing events continued to involve unknown, frightening figures. Cloaked men continued to sweep into the night, terror reigned, but as of yet, innocents had been spared. The men themselves were dying, killed by others seemingly of their brotherhood. None could differentiate the good from the evil, for all seemed as though light was not their forte.

Carefully following these events, as few were, the members of those who considered themselves unerringly of the light, watched and speculated as to what exactly was occurring. They could do no more than wonder, as answers were not forthcoming. But they had their hands full, nonetheless, as darkness was again encompassing upon their own lives. The deaths of unknown cloaked assailants, never identified nor claimed by next of kin, fell into the murky depths of oddity, as more pressing concerns reared themselves.

Threats, bribes, deaths, and other methods of evil were once more rampant, as had not been seen in nearly a decade. After so long, the former warriors were in disarray, many of the leaders having changed to those who worked only with experience in peace and were ignorant as to fight anything more than colleagues in business. In such a state, it was easy for swarthy influences to slip in, concealed until it was too late to defend against the barrage. No one knew when the darkness had begun re-appearing in the peace, no one had thought to look.

Again the forces of the light reconvened, working against the present evil, working to just establish what the evil was. Hope was in short supply as more volatile happenings deepened fears. The innocent needed a vanguard, someone it had already relied upon. Would such a person appear, was the thought lurking in the minds of the powerful. Forefronts were often little more than scapegoats, and not many could or would handle such a part.

When an announcement was made as to the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it appeared as though the part had been accepted.

'New Defense Against The Dark Arts Professor Announced To Be None Other Than The-One-To-Defeat-The-Heir-Of-Slytherin! His Return Hailed As An Omen Of Light!'